It was taking an unexpectedly long period of time for the Gray Man to register the meaning of Greenmantle’s words. Then, once that had sunk in, it took him even longer to understand why Greenmantle was saying them.
“That’s right,” Greenmantle said. “The mystery’s gone. It wasn’t that hard to figure out who you were. Turns out AngloSaxon poetry is a very small field. Even at the undergrad level. And you know how well I do with undergrads.”
The Gray Man hadn’t been Dean Allen for a very long time. It was harder than one might expect to abandon an identity, but the Gray Man was more patient and devoted than most. Usually, one traded one identity for another, but the Gray Man wanted to be no one. Nowhere.
He touched the weathered spine of the riddle book. ic eom wrætlic wiht on gewin sceapen
Greenmantle added, “So, I want it.”
(I am a beautiful thing, shaped for fighting)
“I don’t have it.”
“Sure, Dean, sure.”
“Don’t call me that.”
nelle ic unbunden ænigum hyran nymþe searosæled “Why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
(Unstrung I obey no man; only when skillfully tied —)
The Gray Man said nothing.
“So you’re not going to change your story, Dean?” Greenmantle asked. “And yet you’re going to keep taking my calls. So that means you know where it is, but you don’t have it yet.”
For so many years he’d buried that name. Dean Allen wasn’t supposed to exist. There was a reason he’d given it up.
“Tell you what,” Greenmantle said. “I tell you what. You get the Greywaren and call me by the Fourth of July with your flight confirmation number back here. Or I tell your brother where you are.”
Hold still, Dean.
Logic swam away from the Gray Man. Very quietly, he said, “I told you about him in confidence.”
“I paid you in confidence. Turns out he’s eager to know where you are,” Greenmantle said. “We had a chat, Dean. Says he lost touch with you in the middle of a conversation he’s been wanting to finish.”
The Gray Man turned off the television, but voices still hummed in the background.
“Dean,” Greenmantle said. “You there?”
No. Not really. Color was draining from the walls.
“Do we have an agreement?”
No. Not really. A weapon didn’t come to an agreement with the hand that held it.
“Two days is plenty of time, Dean,” Greenmantle said. “See you on the other side.”
For twenty-one hours, Adam Parrish and the Gray Man slept. While they slept without dreaming, Henrietta prepared for the Fourth of July. Flags climbed poles over car dealerships. Parade signs warned would-be parallel parkers to rethink their choices. In the suburbs, fireworks were bought and dreamt. Doors were locked and, later, busted open. At 300 Fox Way, Adam quietly turned eighteen. Calla was called into her office to make certain nothing important had been stolen during a break-in. At Monmouth Manufacturing, a white Mitsubishi with a set of keys in the ignition and a knife graphic on the side appeared in the parking lot overnight. It bore a note that read, This one’s for you. Just the way you like it: fast and anonymous.
Gansey frowned at the disordered handwriting. “I think he needs to come to terms with his sexuality.”
Ronan, chewing his leather bracelets, dropped them from his teeth and said, “There is no coming to terms with having three balls.”
It was the sort of joke he normally made for Noah. But Noah wasn’t there.
Back at the psychics’ house, Adam woke up. According to Maura, he swung his legs over the sofa, walked into the kitchen where he drank four glasses of pomegranate juice and three cups of one of the more noxious healing teas, thanked Maura for the use of her couch, and then got into his tri-colored car and drove away, all within the space of ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes after that, Maura reported, Persephone came downstairs with a butterfly-shaped handbag and a pair of sensible boots with three-inch heels and laces all the way up her thigh. A taxi arrived and she climbed into it. It drove away in the same direction as the tri-colored car.
Twelve minutes after that, Kavinsky texted Ronan: ballsack. Ronan replied: shitstack. Kavinsky: coming to 4th of July? Ronan: would you stop if you knew it was destroying the world? Kavinsky: god that would be awesome
“Well?” Gansey asked.
Ronan said, “Wouldn’t bet on the negotiations.”
Seven minutes after that, Maura, Calla, and Blue climbed into the fatigued Ford, drove to get Ronan and Gansey, and headed into the simmering day.
Gansey looked like a king, even sitting in the shabby backseat of the shared Fox Way vehicle. Perhaps especially when sitting in the backseat of a shabby vehicle. He asked, “What is it we’re doing?”
Maura replied, “Action.”
Why are we here, man?” Ronan asked. His eyes followed Chainsaw as she cantered anxiously across the counter. He’d brought her to enough places that new locations didn’t generally faze her for long, but she wouldn’t be truly happy until she’d done a perimeter search. She paused to tap her beak on an absolutely darling bird-themed cookie jar. “There are more goddamn roosters than a Hitchcock movie.”
“Are you referring to The Birds?” Gansey asked. “Because I don’t recall any chickens in it. It’s been a long time, though.”
They stood in a homey, belowground kitchen in the basement of the Pleasant Valley Bed and Breakfast. Calla searched the cupboards and drawers; her version of Chainsaw’s room check, possibly. She’d already discovered a waffle maker and a gun, and had placed both on the round breakfast table. Blue stood at the far doorway, peering around to where her mother had gone. Ronan assumed she and Gansey must have fought; she was as far away from him as she could get. Next to Ronan, Gansey reached up to brush one of the dark, exposed beams with his fingertips. He was clearly discomfited by what Maura had told him about Adam on the ride over. Ganseys were creatures of habit, and he wanted Adam here, and he wanted Noah here, and he wanted everyone to like him, and he wanted to be in charge.
Ronan had no idea what he wanted. He checked his phone. He wondered if Kavinsky really did have three balls.
He wondered if Kavinsky was g*y. He wondered if he should go to the Fourth of July party. He wondered where Adam had gone.
“Lynch,” Gansey said. “Are you even listening?”
He glanced up. “No.”